Kings of Albion

by Julian Rathbone

  Every wall is pierced with galleries and pillared arcades on which a thousand thousand images in carved and painted stucco present the lives, adventures and loves of their gods and goddesses, and their heroic avatars. Shiva rides his bull, or Rama, an avatar of Vishnu, searches for his wife Sita, abducted, according to legend, by Ravana; the tale continues as the monkey general Hanuman leads his hordes against Ravana. And in places where the vast walls were not divided into countless alcoves and shrines they were filled with statues in deep relief, or were richly painted with murals of dancing men and women, princes and princesses, gods and goddesses, often performing with open joy the act of procreation, which seem somehow to express the fecundity of the area and an eagerness to enjoy and share with others the earthly pleasures of this life.

  These decorations are all richly coloured in every hue of the rainbow, with scarlets, crimsons and the deep rich blue of lapis-lazuli, speckled with gold, predominating. Indeed I have not mentioned the gold, beaten to airy thinness on every dome, gleaming more solidly on crowns and sword hilts, inlaid in granite, with diamonds from the diamond pipes that are not far off. Everywhere there are flowers, in beds, in hanging baskets, growing in pots, woven into garlands and hung about the images' necks, flowers white, yellow, red and purple that fill the air with a fragrance that mingles with that of the smoke that lazily wreathes the air from a thousand bronze pots that serve as thuribles.

  To the south and below this upland area of temples and sacred precincts, and hardly less magnificent, is the Royal Enclave, then east of that, on the far side of the river with its parks and gardens, the township proper. Lacking the natural defences of the higher places it has its own fortifications and includes the multifarious markets, the artisans' shops and factories, the merchant houses and the barracks of the military.

  The temple-hostel to which I had been directed was dedicated to Cianesha, the elephant-headed son of the god Shiva and his consort Parvati, or Pampa, who personifies the great river Tungabhadra. I have said that already? Well, I warned you, my mind wanders at times. One of my companions told me that Ganesha is the god to whom one makes supplication at the outset of any great undertaking so it seemed to me therefore an apt place to stay on the first night of my first visit to the City of Victory, a visit that would take me to the end of the world and back. Or, at any rate, as far as Macclesfield.

  The temple itself was small, little more than a large kiosk; an intricately carved roof of sandalwood set on eight slender pillars gave the structure an octagonal ground plan. Under the centre of the finely carved pyramidal ceiling, on a raised octagonal platform, sat the god, a charming brick-red figure with a plump male torso, pantalooned legs crossed on a cushion set in a lotus, with his four hands holding a necklace, an axe, an ornamental sickle and a lotus flower. His elephant head, which bore an expression of open welcome, wore a gold crown, rakishly tilted, decorated again with enamelled lotus flowers while various fine bracelets, anklets, armbands and necklaces of gold chain, pearls and sapphires circled his limbs. Offerings of garlanded flowers, food, sweet cakes and incense were arranged neatly on all sides, and as I stood there admiring this homely, pleasant but rich and enriching figure a small family of husband, wife and three lovely children came in with more offerings.

  I should say here that the religion of the Dravidians is not congregational: they do not attend their temples in huge masses to listen to or assist in long ceremonies so there are no huge spaces of the sort one finds in Christian cathedrals or the great mosques of Islam. Believers come singly or as families, to make their simple offerings and commune with the saint, avatar, god or goddess of their choice through wordless meditation.

  This charming temple was set in an open garden filled with roses, jasmine and many brilliant and huge flowers unnamed in our tongues since they grow only where the air is always warm and where there is abundant water. There was also a pool where the evening breeze caused lotus flowers to tug at their sub-aquatic moorings above the gold and silver whiskered carp who sought the shade beneath. Birds with brilliant plumage, some so tiny they were no bigger than a child's thumb, others trailing clouds of glorious feathers, flitted, hummed or strutted amongst the bushes and beneath the palms.

  One wall was filled with a pavilion in which a dozen or so pallets stuffed with cotton flowers were set out for passing travellers or pilgrims to take their rest, but not before dark-skinned maidens with almond-shaped eyes, clad in rose and emerald silks, had brought us bowls of rice, spiced vegetables, and cakes spiked with bhang, no doubt taken from the day's offerings to Ganesha. They danced sinuously, dramatically and, I have to say, provocatively to a small group of musicians with long-armed rebecs and pottery drums to which the girls added the silvery chime of their finger cymbals. Some of the older of these dancers offered themselves freely to the more prepossessing of our company for conversation, dalliance and, if the mood took them, love beneath the silken sheets that covered our pallets.

  Chapter Five

  I arose with the sun and breakfasted off ripe mangoes and spiced bread, which I found had been left at the end of my bed, and washed myself in a marble basin set in the wall behind the pavilion. Thus refreshed I made my adieux to the temple maidens before strolling down wide, palm-lined boulevards to the Royal Enclave. It soon became clear that I was part of a swelling crowd making its way to a huge square, whose centre was a magnificent platform some thirty feet high and some hundred and more paces square, made out of granite and rock that sparkled with green crystals. It was pavilioned in splendid fabrics and jewels and girded with as yet unlit flambeaux and torches. As we made our way down, I fell in with a young man whose simple garb, shaven head but proud mien suggested that I was in the presence of a neophyte of some priestly order.

  In Urdu, the lingua franca of those parts, he explained to me why he and the countless others around us were there. Such was the interest I felt in what he had to say, I walked with him right down to the big square with its platform, leaving the Royal Enclave behind me.

  'Tonight,' he explained, and his voice was soft and musical, though quite deep, 'is the first of nine that make up the great festival of Mahanavaini, which celebrates the end of the wet season. People are already gathering to be sure of getting places in the Square around the platform from which they can enjoy the best views of the joyful celebrations that will begin at nightfall…' He went on to describe the form the festivities would take – a succession of dances by troupes from each ward of the city – and as he did so I took the opportunity to examine his appearance more carefully.

  He was about twenty years old. perhaps a little more, not tall but. as far as his voluminous but simple gown would allow me to guess, well built, with long hands and lingers and long feet. His head was round and shaved to a short furry pelt with a ridge of longer hair, an inch or so long, running from his forehead to the nape of his neck where it ended in a small twisted pigtail. His eyes were dark, large and deep-set beneath a long bushy eyebrow that had no gap in the middle. Often they seemed focused on some distant or perhaps inner reality, but when brought to earth they glowed with humour and an affection too easily bestowed. His voice, as I have indicated, was deep but gentle, not in the least harsh.

  I expressed disappointment that I might miss the performances, or at least be left on the outer fringes of the crowd, as I expected to have to spend most of the day tracking down Prince Harihara Raya Kurteishi. But my new friend insisted that first I must go with him ami see where he would station himself in the throng so I could join him there later. Once established at a good vantage-point he would give me directions to the palace or the part of the complex of palaces where I would most probably find the Prince. When I suggested that I might have to make an appointment and cope with the formalities and bureaucracy that protect such high dignitaries in most countries, he told me there should be no problem. All the members of the Emperor's family, and indeed most of the senior members of the Royal Household, made themselves available to the general pub
lic for long periods every day; while I might be involved in a long wait until my turn came up. I should surely be seen before dusk.

  On our way I quizzed my companion about various aspects of the crowd that puzzled me, the two most notable being the way in which the well-to-do mingled freely with the labourers, artisans and peasants, and the absence of any soldiers, armed men. tribunes, constables and the like. This was not the India, surviving under Islam, that I had come to know on my three previous visits to the northern ports. Here was no apparent caste system, no rigid social codification according to occupation or ancestry, no snobbery taken to the level of designating some people as untouchable.

  My friend, who said he went by the name of Suryan, explained to me that the river Krishna to the north, of which the Tungabhadra was a tributary, was not only the border between Vijayanagara and the Bahmani sultanates but also marked the southern limit of the Aryan invasions many centuries earlier. It was the Aryans, he said, few in number but warlike and well armed, who had imposed upon the conquered populace of central and northern India laws whereby only Aryans or their descendants could hold land, bear anus or belong to the priesthood. In time these practices had been codified as the Bhahminical system, which gave apparently god-ordained legitimacy to a ruthless oppression.

  However, he continued, the old practices continued south of the Krishna under the Dravidian Chola dynasties, then later still under the benign rule of the Vijayanagaran Deva Raya dynasty.

  'So what is the real Hinduism?' I asked, attempting to conceal my ignorance of what he was talking about, all of which seemed to him self-evident

  He began by asserting that the word itself was Persian and not Dravidian. He went on: 'Naturally, since the Aryans adopted our religion there remains much in common. We honour the same manifestations of godliness. Shiva, Vishnu, their consorts and offspring, but often under different names and very often without any ot their harsher characteristics. Indeed there is a gender reversal in their pantheon since the goddess, especially in the form of the beautiful Parvati, is here honoured above the male gods. But we also honour the spirits of place, of trees, springs, seasons and the like, most of whom are also female. I attach myself particularly to the cults of Rati who rides on a swan, her consort Kama, the god of love, Skanda, who rides on a peacock, and Sarasvati, goddess of music and learning.'

  'And do you follow the Brahmins in their pursuit of union with the godhead and spiritual perfection through reincarnation?'

  'Not at all.' Suryan expressed some disgust at the very idea. 'The goddesses and gods I have spoken of are all human creations, outward manifestations of the goddess within us, and our exercises are devoted to achieving the ecstasies that enable us to become one with that deity.'

  This approached very closely the beliefs and practices of the branch of Islam in which I was brought up, until I suffered that cruel sword-stroke and the loss of all those I loved, beliefs I later learnt to understand better in the fastnesses of the Hindu Kush. I was to discover that this Kaula version went to a far deeper level even than that taken by the dervishes who, amongst us, achieve similar if cruder ecstasies m their whirling dances.

  By now we had reached a shaded corner of the great square within the portico of one of the buildings that enclosed it. After first promising to return before sunset, I left Suryan there with his back to a less than aniconic linga. the phallic symbol of Shiva, and made my way back up into the Royal Enclave. I had no difficulty getting there: casual passers-by were ready with directions and, as I began to move through the Royal Enclave, minor officials and doormen also helped me.

  Chapter Six

  My access to the Prince's presence was, indeed, unchallenged though it did involve a wait of several hours. Meanwhile messengers, petitioners, mendicants, suppliers of war materials, inventors of new weapons, and who knows what else?, came and went, singly or in groups, while vendors selling slices of melon or cups of cold water, coconut milk and lassi in their rounds. I asked the doormen who stood at the various entrances that led into the further parts of the building if, how, or when I could be granted an audience with Prince Harihara. My requests were met with polite assurances that I would be taken to him in no time at all. However, I soon realised that similar answers were being returned to almost all who approached them, so at last I did what I had not done in two years and more: I parted with my precious bundle. 'Take it,’ I insisted to a doorman, an elderly but kind-looking man who carried an ebony staff with silver mountings, 'and tell the Prince that, if he needs to know more about its provenance, to send for me before dusk.' I then sat down with my back to the doorpost and waited. An hour or so later I saw him picking his way through the crowd and guessed that it was me he was looking for. Again I presented myself to him.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, with some relief. 'I was beginning to tear you had gone. Prince Harihara will see you now.'

  His ebony staff was clearly a symbol of some authority for doors opened to him as I followed and door-keepers stood aside. The halls and courtyards he led me through were beautifully proportioned, not grandiose now that we had left the public area but not lacking dignity either, many with slender pillars, intricately carved ceilings and others with small ponds and fountains. Songbirds fluttered at liberty and butterflies cruised low banks of almond-scented purple flowers. Unglazed windows looked out over the lower town and the great valley beyond. It put me in mind of the Alhambra Palace on the hill above Granada but with this advantage: there, following the Kor'an, the decorations are either abstract or repeat endlessly in fine calligraphy the mantra ' Wa-la ghaliba illah-Llah' (There is no Conqueror but God), while here wall-paintings and low-relief depicted the joys of an earthly paradise in realistic detail.

  We came at last to a loggia set behind a pool with views of the mountains we had crossed the day before framed in its arched windows. Prince Harihara Raya Kurteishi was standing in one of them. He turned to face us as we came into his presence.

  He was tall and well-built, his dark skin glowing with the sheen so typical of his race. He wore a rich gown made of fine buttery-yellow cotton, embroidered with silver, which added to the easy grace of his movements. He also wore a necklace of filigree gold and precious stones, which might have been a badge of office but whose function, I later decided, was probably decorative. His hair was long, worn to his shoulders, and thick, a lustrous black, not unlike the mane of the leader of a pride of lions; his hands were large and strong. He carried with him an aura that was almost godlike, the charisma of the anointed. And, for as long as he was more than twenty feet from you, you would swear he was in the prime of life, not more than thirty years old. It was only as he came nearer that you saw the deep lines in his face, particularly on either side of his mouth, giving a sharper delineation to his cheeks and jaw, the crow's feet at the corners of his deep-set eyes, the furrows in his brow, the thinness of his lips. He smiled often, but always with a hint of melancholy. In short, he was fifty years old at least, about ten or fifteen years younger than I was at that time.

  He welcomed me with a nod. 'You are Ali ben Quatar Mayeen, a merchant?'

  I assented.

  'And you brought me this packet?' A slight gesture indicated a small table on which it lay, but now with its thongs of faded red leather unknotted and its outer cover of oiled cloth peeled back to reveal the leaves of parchment it contained. My bowed head signalled agreement.

  'Then it is possible we have much to talk about.'

  My well-being, and indeed my continued existence, have often depended on an ability to make quick, accurate assessments of the people I am dealing with, and particularly of their weaknesses. Prince Harihara, I decided almost immediately, was vain of his appearance, and had a high regard, perhaps not fully justified, for his own abilities – characteristics I associate with younger brothers of heirs apparent, cousins of royalty, people who owe their position to birth but would prefer to think that they have got where they are through merit. They bask in the light shed by those yet more pri
vileged by birth than they, and presume upon it – yet they resent it.

  And what did he see?

  The man standing in front of him looked like a scarecrow. He wore a large, greasy turban above a black voluminous sheet, torn in places, laded to rust in others, and grubby with the food that had been spilt on it. A diagonal scar traversed a face that a straggly moustache and goatish beard did nothing to make more prepossessing. Below the sheet his shins were stick-like and the nails on his long sandalled feet were turned down like claws over his toes. In his right hand he held a staff, as tall as himself, ash-white and barkless with age, on which he leant, his body tilted to the left so it made a zigzag against the straightness of the pole. In short, dear Mah-Lo, he had before him what you see now, though perhaps a little less ruined by age and pain-racked joints.

  Prince Harihara was, therefore, probably disinclined to believe a word of my story: it would seem to him, on the face of it, an unlikely concoction put together to cover the fact that I had either stolen the package from a traveller or picked it up on the quay of some Levantine port. Yet this magnifico was ready to listen to the vagabond: that surely said something about the package I had brought.

  Had he not already perused the parchment leaves I doubt he would have given me the time of day, let alone a full personal audience. However, having established that it was indeed I who had brought the packet, he went on to question me as to how it had come into my possession. Reserving judgement tor the time being on my veracity he concluded, 'No doubt you expect some reward for bringing it to me.'